


Sheets Of Snow

by gh0st1nn1t



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adopted Toby Smith | Tubbo, Alexis | Quackity Angst, Alexis | Quackity Needs a Hug, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Child Abandonment, DadSchlatt, Floris | Fundy Angst, Floris | Fundy Has Daddy Issues, Floris | Fundy Needs A Hug, Goat Hybrid Toby Smith | Tubbo, Good Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt Needs a Hug (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Parent Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Toby Smith | Tubbo, Snow, Soft Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Tags Are Hard, The Author Regrets Everything, Toby Smith | Tubbo Angst, Toby Smith | Tubbo Has Horns, Toby Smith | Tubbo Needs a Hug, Toby Smith | Tubbo in a Box, Tubbo Schlatt, yes that needs to be capitalised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28506378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gh0st1nn1t/pseuds/gh0st1nn1t
Summary: Schlatt's consantly haunted by the ghostly memories of him and his kid, the decision to leave him in the box leaving permanant guilt and regret swirling in his stomach. He finally breaks and confesses the truth to his entire cabinet, expecting to be shunned, instead, they promise to help track down his son, and fix what was broken.Except it doesn't go the way they planned.
Relationships: ALL PLATONIC, Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Floris | Fundy & Jschlatt, Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 367





	1. bottles of gold to numb icarus' heart

**Author's Note:**

> “So, whos this?”  
> “My son.” Beat. “Shit. I said someone, thats just someone”  
> “You have a son?”  
> “...It'd be more of a had than a have”
> 
> WARNINGS :  
> -TEEN PARENTING (this is a theme throughout the entire thing)  
> -alcoholism  
> -child abandonment  
> -talk of poverty  
> [if i miss any, please tell me]

Schlatt fucking hated it. He spent day after day with his mind preoccupied, one nagging thought constantly at the back of his mind, screaming and screaming until he silenced it with whatever alcohol he could find spare. 

Thing is, he was used to dealing with persistent thoughts, like that one item he’d accidentally taken from the shop but dropped on his way home out of guilt at 23 that had never been paid for or retrieved and _oh god did that make him a criminal_ and that one homeless person he walked past back when he was a teen who he couldn't afford to give spare money to because _his pockets and his bank were completely drained and HE was homeless too but oh god they looked much sadder than he was and-_

He shook his head, swirling the shining glass bottle in his hand, the warm golden liquid spilling up the sides of the bottles, a few drops launching into the air. A bitter laugh fell from his lips, a hollow, emotionless sound. There was no joy behind it, no slight tremble in his shoulders, no quirk at the corner of his lips, nothing but anger and hatred.

Not to anyone around him, no.

But to himself.

The decision he’d made while intoxicated and distraught at the age of 22, the cardboard box left on the side of the street, abandoned immediately as he turned tail and sprinted.

His son…

Schlatt sniffled, picking up the frame in front of him, tears spilling onto the image. 

It showcased him as nothing more than late 16, terror painted onto his features. The twisting horns were considerably shorter, instead, sticking up into the air behind him, almost fully straight, not even curled yet. His hair was dark golden and short, poking up in all directions. Violet tinted his under eyes, the eyebags heavy and obvious. His clothes consisted of a poorly fitting, long sleeve, grey shirt tucked into black shorts, matching his raggedy shoes. 

Despite all of that, a smile graced his face, pure joy mixed with the fear in his eyes. In his arms was a newborn, barely bigger than his hands, legs kicked in the air, one hand wrapped around Schlatt’s thumb, the other stuck in his mouth, drool covering his bee-themed onesie. His ears were almost identical to Schlatt’s, resembling a ram's ears, fur coating it. But Schlatt made a promise, no matter what, he’d never let his son get the bright yellow, unremovable, cattle tag clipped to his ear, not like how Schlatt did.

The man smiled down at the photos, remembering how terrified he’d been then, when he had the newborn shoved into his arms along with an hours worth of baby food, a shitty, torn up white blanket and a declaration that it was his and that there was no way in hell she was taking care of it. Fuck, he’d been so scared, he was a hybrid with an estranged family, no money, an alcohol addiction, and a shitty education, but the moment the kid had looked up at him, giggled and grasped at the sharp end of his left horn, he knew he’d protect the kid with his life. And god, if he didn’t…

Schlatt remembered the times when he’d go starving and without sleep just to make sure that no one broke in and harmed his kid. He couldn’t afford to buy locks for the home for the first week of his sons life, so he stayed up, never even closed his eyes, sitting by his sons side the entire time, watching the doors and the windows hastily. 

The moment he’d heard that click of the lock he’d almost sobbed out of relief, knowing he was able to finally sleep for over two minutes without being paranoid to death that his son would die.

Schlatt stared down at the frame clutched tightly in his hands, tears burning his eyes. He didn’t want to think about what he’d done, no, no he didn’t, no thank you. The frame clattered to the floor among the hundreds of others, Schlatt instead grabbing the shiny bottle of liquid and downing it, the burning in his throat tugging his mind out of the railway of memories of his son, the one he left, the one he-

“Schlatt? What the hell are you doing, man?” 

His head snapped to the side, eyes meeting the swirling brown hues of one of his presidential team.

Fundy leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. A burnt orange sweater covered his torso, black pajama bottoms hanging loosely off of his frame. Confusion was painted onto his face as he glanced between the tears, the frames and the alcohol. He glanced behind him, making sure no one else was there before slipping in silently and shutting the door, moving to sit by Schlatt’s side. 

Everyone who lived in the white house had a familial relationship, the government running like a family business rather than a stone cold presidency. Fundy viewed Schlatt as a father figure, and the ram hybrid knew that. So seeing him so...broken felt wrong.

The image he grabbed happened to be the very last one Schlatt had taken right before he left his son there, _he left him he left him he-_

“What’s going on?” he asked quietly, taking in the image. He recognised Schlatt immediately, but he looked exhausted and on the brink of death, skeletal and sick. Despite that, he was laughing, holding the camera out to show a kid no older than 6 sat on his shoulders, matching sunglasses sat on his face, cheering, arms thrown into the air. “So, who’s this?” He asked, tilting the frame to show it to the drunken president.

“My son,” Schlatt answered, not even hesitating.

“You have a son?” Fundy struggled to control his volume, thankfully able to keep it quiet enough that no one outside of the room would hear. The shock that was on his face made his eyes widen and his jaw drop.

Schlatt was struck with realisation, and suddenly all the alcohol had melted away, leaving him stone cold sober and stumped. “No, not son, I said someone, shit, that’s just someone,” he fumbled over his words, clenching and unclenching his fists, fear trickling down his spine. God, his reputation was already in shambles, he didn’t need to be known as the teen whore who abandoned his kid for dead and never turned back. Plus, they’d go looking for his son, and Schlatt would rather die than have to face what he’d done,

“You have a son?” He repeated, not falling for the hastily rushed out lies. 

Schlatt was silent for a moment, taking the image from Fundy's hand, gulping and whispering, “It’d be more of a had than a have.”

Fundy was silent in response, taking a deep breath as the information sunk in, choosing to ignore how young Schlatt was in the images before him. He’d seen one photo of Schlatt from when he was 16, and he looked identical to how he did in the frame that he’d just picked up, “What happened to him?”

“I don’t even know if he’s alive, Fundy. Actually, I’m 99% certain he’s dead,” Schlatt confessed quietly, the guilt suffocating him, reducing his voice to be quiet and shaky. He was silent in return, and Schlatt continued, expecting himself to say a few things and then go quiet, but once he started he couldn’t get his voice to stop, “I think I killed him. I don’t know for sure though. I don’t think I ever will. I was 16 when I had him. Actually, he would be 16 now if he survived,” He wiped at his eyes, “God, I hope he didn’t turn out like me.”

Fundy placed a hand on his shoulder quietly, a small sign of comfort. He knew what having a kid young was like, not directly, but Wilbur had told him enough to know vaguely what the struggle was like. 

“D’y’know what I did to him? I left him, Fundy. I didn’t want to, but god, I was 22, I lost my job, got evicted, there was nothing for him there, I couldn’t look after him. So, I- I- I shoved all of the things we had in a box, his blanket, that stupid fucking bee keyring he found on the ground, his clothes, everything. There wasn’t much, but I put him in it, and left him on the side of the road. And I walked away.”

He inhaled shakily. “It was mid december, I remember that. I left him on a fairly busy road, there were a lot of houses there, and I hoped and prayed every fucking second that someone had left their house and had mercy on him. It snowed the next day, 4 foot tall snow, and all I could think was ‘oh god I left him out in that he’s dead now and I did it I killed my son he was only 6 I did it I left him to freeze I-‘“ He faltered, breaking off into quiet sobs. “Every fucking time it gets quiet all I hear is his screaming and his crying. Every time I go to sleep all I see is his half dead body begging me to come back to the box and not leave him there to freeze and-“

“Schlatt, listen to me, right now,” Fundy forced him to look at him, “It was not your fault. You did what you had to, gave him a chance at a better life. And shit, if that didn’t work, then you tried, right? You still helped him as much as you could. You were younger than me when you had him, it wasn’t your fault, you gave him the best life you could as a kid yourself. The fact that you’re still worried about him after, what, 10 years proves you’re a good dad. You did what you could,” Fundy kept his voice steady, the words flowing out easily.

Tears streaked Schlatt’s cheeks, and he wiped furiously at them, laughing bitterly, “God, Fundy, you’re a fucking child, you shouldn’t be dealing with this-“

“Schlatt, shut the fuck up for five seconds. It _wasn’t_ your fault. Listen, we’ll look for him, okay? If you want us too, we can find out everything we possibly can and see where he is now. You know it’s possible,” he suggested, eyes scanning the hundreds of photos littering the floor.

Schlatt considered it. If he was told he could reunite with his son and he was brought to a fucking gravestone Schlatt knew he’d gladly drink himself into an early grave. But god, if his son was alive he didn’t want to see that he’d turned out just like him, an unstable alcoholic who made impulsive decisions who hurt everyone he could and- Fuck, what if his son had a tag like him? What if he’d been put into the system and treated like a wild animal as he was passed from home to home? What if he had one of those fucking dehumanising cattle monitors clasped around his neck? Or if his horns were misshapen from dickheads trying to ‘turn him human’ like they’d done with Schlatt? Or-

“Hey, snap out of it,” Fundy said, but there was no venom behind his words, simply doing the first thing that came to mind to stop Schlatt zoning out. He didn’t want to imagine what thoughts were cycling around inside of his father figures brain. “Would you want us to try and find him? I wont say a word of who he is to Quackity and Tubbo, just that we need to find him.”

Schlatt finally looked over to him, “I think- I- Yeah, yeah, okay,” he nodded slowly, scrubbing at his eyes, a grateful expression sat on his face. He was silent for a moment, breathing in slowly.

“What was his name?”

Schlatt bit his lip harshly, “I...I don’t remember. It started with a T, but that’s all I know.” He was terrified he’d come across as a bad dad, but the moment he’d seen the snow and assumed his son's death, he’d drank himself into the hospital, the alcohol mixing with the emotions and creating a wall around anything that could lead to finding his son. The hospital had demanded he see a psychiatrist, his alcoholism growing severe enough that it began leading to huge memory gaps. He denied it, and that very night, he'd snuck out of the window, and ran.

Fundy didn’t judge him in the slightest, “That’s okay. I’ll see what we can do anyway.”

“Thank you, Fundy. Seriously.”

Fundy smiled sincerely, taking the bottle from Schlatt’s trembling hands and placing it on top of the desk behind them, “And that’s enough for you. I bet you’re not going to be able to sleep after this, so c’mon, got any funny stories about your kid?”


	2. sometimes walls are there for a reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who are we looking for?”   
> “That’s the problem, I’m not completely sure, we don’t have much information about them. But it is possible, and we will do it.”  
> “Why?”  
> “Unimportant.”  
> “So we have a ‘secret hunting’ mission, but we don’t know who we’re hunting, and you won’t even tell us why we’re having to track them down?”  
> “Exactly! See? You’re catching on already, great job,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS :  
> -talk of alcoholism (in the past)  
> -talk of near-fatal alcohol overdoses (also in the past)  
> (both of these are only mentioned once in a single sentence.)  
> (if i miss any, please tell me!)

Fundy kept his mouth shut, not breathing a single word of Schlatt’s breakdown to anyone else. No one else was even vaguely aware that Schlatt wasn’t okay. Schlatt had thanked him profusely and hugged him tightly, a strange gesture for the unaffectionate ram hybrid. Fundy knew how much finding his son meant to him, so he made an effort to finish paperwork early just to begin research on where on earth his son could be.

The first thing he found was Schlatt’s medical records, which were surprisingly easy to access, only needing a mild amount of hacking. He scrolled past the numerous almost fatal alcohol overdoses (“seriously, someone should talk to him about that,” he muttered) to the year when Schlatt was 16, hoping the hospital would have noted down that Schlatt had become a father. 

He checked every date for the entire year, and found nothing. 

There was no sign of Schlatt being present at his son's birth.

Fundy abandoned that source, exiting the tab and rubbing his eyes, venturing towards the kitchen. He had no idea where to start, he didn’t even have the name of the kid, which made his job much _much_ tougher.

But there was no way in hell he was going to give up.

He poured himself a coffee, drinking half of it immediately, refilling it and walking back to his room. On the way, he bumped into Schlatt.

“Oh! Schlatt! Good, I was just coming to ask you something,” he glanced around, making sure no one was around to hear. He knew Quackity and Tubbo had gone out to send surveys out to the citizens, but he knew he’d be paranoid if he didn’t check. “Do you remember the name of your son's mother?”

Schlatt nodded and wrote it down on a slip of paper which Fundy hastily shoved in his pocket, thanking the younger man once again, watching with fatherly pride as Fundy darted back to his room, eager to help. 

Fundy hadn’t expected how hard it’d be to actually unravel the mystery, thinking all he had to do was check her medical records, find her sons name, google him and be done with, but as he sat there, attempting to sneak past the firewall for the seventh time, boredom gnawed at his brain.

He’d ended up hacking into the system for over three hours, and he gave up, pissed that he’d never been as good at hacking as Tubbo or Quackity were. 

“Shit,” Fundy cursed under his breath, slamming the laptop shut. He’d just have to wait for them to return.

And wait he did.

The moment Quackity and Tubbo stepped through the doors, he dragged them off into the kitchen, a finger against his lips to gesture to be quiet. They didn’t listen. Of course they didn’t.

The duo complained loudly, their previous conversation getting cut off by their protests.

“What the fuck, man,” Quackity complained, wrist grasped painfully tight by the fox hybrid, scoffing as he was practically thrown into the room. He sank into one of the kitchen chairs, leaning against the plush grey fabric, arms crossed, pouting and sulking. 

Tubbo was just as resistant, “Fundy! The hell?” He snatched his arm back, shuffling to follow the other two into the room, jumping at the loud shutting of the door and jumping up to sit on the counter. “Why did you drag us here?”

Fundy grinned, “We have a mission.”

Quackity raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by the failed dramatics, gesturing for him to continue, “...And that is?”

“We’re going to try and track someone down,” The mystery in his tone seemed to finally intrigue the others into listening, Quackity beginning to lean forward and Tubbo sitting more upright. Both changes were subtle, but it was encouragement enough for Fundy to continue, “It’s important, and secret, we can’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“Who are we looking for?” 

“That’s the problem, I’m not completely sure, we don’t have much information about them. _But_ it _is_ possible, and we will do it.”

“Why?”

“Unimportant.”

Tubbo looked at him in disbelief, “So we have a ‘secret hunting’ mission, but we don’t know who we’re hunting, and you won’t even tell us why we’re having to track them down?”

“Exactly! See? You’re catching on already, great job,” Fundy grinned, “Alright, starting tomorrow, we’re going to find him.”

“So he’s a he, that’s a start,” Quackity remarked bitterly. 


	3. threads tying themselves together, sewing up the tears of a broken family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I had him 16 years ago,”   
> “So you were, what, 17?”  
> “16, actually.”  
> Quackity stared at him, “Shit, man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS :  
> -mention of water bills being shut off  
> -hints at poverty  
> -overworking

“God fucking damn it,” Quackity muttered under his breath as he stormed in, slamming the door behind him, leaning against it, sighing heavily. The blue hoodie he wore had the hood pulled up and tightened, only showing his face and a tiny bit of hair that peaked out from beneath it.

Schlatt poked his head around the door, an amused grin resting on his face. “You good man?” He saw Quackity huff and cross his arms. He strode over to his Vice Presidents side, grabbing Quackity’s wrist and dragging him over to the living room, where he had been sitting moments ago.

“My last fucking beanie ripped,” he tugged it out of his pocket, sinking into the sofa and slouching, torn beanie in his hands. He leaned against the arm of the sofa, white knuckled as he gripped his hat.

“What the fuck happened?” Schlatt asked, sliding onto the floor in front of the sofa where he had been before, the large stack of papers still scattered across the table. He picked up the discarded pen and continued filling in the forums. 

Quackity’s response was quiet, “I tripped,” he confessed.

Schlatt broke into laughter, dropping the pen to turn around and face the man, “You tripped? What, on a fucking cheese grater?” He snickered, grinning when he saw Quackity fail to restrain a laugh. He extended a hand, “Gimme it. I’ll fix it for you.”

“You?” That earned a laugh from Quackity, “There’s no way you’re able to sew this back up,” he chuckled.

“Quackity, you dick, do you want it fixed or not?” Despite Schlatt’s words, he had laughed too, grinning as he spoke, no venom behind his words.

There was a groan and then the beanie was shoved into his hands, “Fine, but I’m staying here while you do it, I want to make sure you don’t fuck it up,” he joked, earning a smirk from Schlatt.

“Fine. You can come do this,” he slid the papers to the side, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “I’ll go get the kit, here, read through these, I needed to ask you to check them anyway,” he handed the pen to Quackity, gesturing to the papers.

He groaned dramatically but still moved to sit across the table. Schlatt left the room and re-entered moments later, a small black kit in his hand, sitting across from Quackity.

Carefully, he pulled out a needle, resting it on the table momentarily. He pretended not to notice the Vice President watching him as he pulled out matching blue thread for the beanie.

“Since when did you know how to sew?” Quackity asked, baffled by the concept of the brash, harsh, loud President knowing how to _sew_ of all things.

Schlatt stayed silent momentarily, thinking over whether or not to tell the truth. Either he could confess the truth, that he’d learned to sew so his son had clothes, even if they were made from any old clothing he had spare. He used any fabric he could find to sew up something so his son had a toy for once, like the bee plushie he'd made out of the onesie the hospital had given him that his kid grew out of. Or he could lie.

“You there?” Quackity waved his hand in front of Schlatt’s face. 

He glanced at the door. Fundy already knew, it didn’t matter if he had overheard.

Tubbo was out, spending his free day with Tommy and their friends. Schlatt decided ‘fuck it’.

Schlatt glanced up with a smirk, “Why is me knowing how to sew such a strange concept to you?”’ 

“You’re you, and sewing is...sewing!” Quackity waved his hands as he spoke, emphasising his confusion.

He laughed loudly, “It comes in helpful,” he chuckled, bordering on confessing.

“Wow, how ominous,” Quackity laughed, returning to scanning over the President’s work. His eyes flickered up, seeing his usually shaking hands completely still as he threaded the needle through the fabric of the beanie. “So, where’d you learn to sew anyway?”

“Taught myself,” Schlatt replied simply, carefully typing the knot on the inside of the hat so it wouldn’t be visible from the outside. He pierced the other side, pulling on the thread gently to get the top bit to seal.

“And I’m meant to be trusting you with my beanie?” Despite Quackity’s dramatics, he was mildly impressed by how quickly the President had begun sewing, and how he had already patched up half of one of the rips.

Schlatt laughed, pausing his work as to not mess up, “Eh, your choice,” he smirked. 

The two returned to a comfortable silence, Quackity flicking through the paper’s, analysing every sentence and adding little notes in orange, Schlatt focusing on repairing the tears in the beanie. The only noises were the faint creaking of the house and the flapping of papers as Quackity moved to another sheet. 

In no less than ten minutes, the beanie looked identical to how it had been before Quackity’s clumsiness caused it to get shredded. Schlatt slid it across the table, “Done.” 

Quackity gaped at it. He’d looked up a few times during the first few minutes, when there was only one tear that had been sewed back together, but it was already completely repaired, and he couldn’t even remember where the rips had been. “Holy shit man, how the fuck?” He slid his hood down, his hair showing for a mere second before he slid it back onto his head. “I’m convinced you’re a fuckin’ magician or something,” he stared at Schlatt with a grin, “Thank you.”

“Eh, it wasn’t hard,” Schlatt shrugged, but the praise slipped a smile onto his face, even if the mere thought of sewing cast sadness into his mind. The last time he’d ever patched anything up was when his son was five, only a few days before Schlatt had left him. He’d come running to Schlatt, proudly showing off the mud caking his shirt, and Schlatt didn’t have the heart to tell his son that their water bills had been shut off, that there was no way to clean it. 

So he just smiled and sent him to get changed, throwing the shirt into the bin. That night, after his son had fallen asleep on his shoulder, he carefully slid from the bed, pulling out an old, soft, greent-shirt that was a similar colour to the shirt he had to bin. He grabbed the sewing kit and managed to alter the shirt to be around the same size as some of his sons other ones, leaving it draped over the back of his sons chair, pretending as if it was just the muddy shirt that had been washed.

Seeing the grin on his sons face as he blubbered out words to thank his father, Schlatt felt guilt rise in him that he’d lied to his kid. But there was nothing he could do.

“...-latt? You okay?” 

He snapped back to the present, seeing a hand waving in his face. Quackity sat across from him, a confused look resting on his face as he spoke. “You zoned out for like a solid minute there. You good?” 

“Yeah, sorry, a little tired, y’know?” Schlatt felt the lie slip out before he even realised what he was saying. Still, the concern on the Vice President’s face seemed to ease, and suddenly the lie made him feel less guilty.

“How long have you been working on these papers for?” Quackity asked. When he’d left the house in the morning, he caught a glimpse of Schlatt heading towards the living room, papers in hand. But that had been around ten hours ago, and he started doubting whether or not the President had given himself a break.

“Uh, since this morning?” Schlatt couldn’t understand why Quackity looked so worried, but with a simple glance at the clock, the realisation dawned on him. He hadn’t moved from that spot for almost half the day.

Quackity got to his feet, offering a hand down to Schlatt. “You are going to sleep,” It wasn’t an offer, it was a demand, leading Schlatt towards his room.

“Who are you, my boss?” Schlatt remarked with a grin. Worry settled in his stomach, remembering that he’d left a photo of his son on his bedside table after Fundy had visited. He could only hope Quackity would stop at the door.

He didn’t. He barged in, letting go of Schlatt’s hand, “You,” he pointed to him, “Sleep,” he pointed to the bed. “Now.”

“I’m not a caveman, Quackity,” Schlatt laughed to himself, sitting on the edge of the bed. He noticed Quackity’s eyes following him, but they moved past him, settling on the image by the bed. 

It was the one with his son on his shoulders, waving the bee keyring in the air proudly as Schlatt grinned, glancing up and behind him to see his son’s smile.

“Who’s that?” Quackity asked, seating himself beside Schlatt. He recognised the man, even if he looked years younger, but the child on his shoulders was unrecognisable, partially because the photo looked old, partially because the sunglasses sat on his nose seemed miles too big and covered most of his face.

Schlatt decided ‘fuck it’ and smiled softly, “My son. He’s the one I learned sewing for, by the way,” he remarked, grabbing the frame and handing it to Quackity, who gaped.

“Your _what_?”

“Fundy had the same reaction,” Schlatt laughed, thankful for the fox hybrid that made the truth less daunting to admit. “It’s really not that surprising, I don’t get why you’re so shocked,” he shrugged. He couldn’t tell if it was just because he was exhausted, but telling someone for the second time was much easier than the first, as he already knew what to say and the vague understanding of how they’d react.

Quackity was quiet momentarily, struggling to imagine the dignified, loud President with a kid. “This pictures old as fuck, when’d you have him? Where is he?” He asked, looking down at the image he’d been handed, and up close, he noticed the hollowed-out look on Schlatt’s face, deep purple eyebags resting beneath his eyes.

“It’s only like ten years old, you’re acting like I’m an old man,” Schlatt chuckled, “I had him 16 years ago,” he stopped, purposely avoiding the last question. 

“So you were, what, 17?”

“16, actually.”

Quackity stared at him, “Shit, man.”


	4. horns peak through the hair like truth through glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On his head poking from beneath his hair was horns. Barely visible horns, but horns nonetheless. Small, sharp beginnings of horns had grown past his hair length, parting the curls around them, making the soft white colour stand out from the cinnamon coloured hair.   
> “You- Fuck, Fundy, you can’t tell anyone, Fundy, promise me, promise you won’t tell anyone,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS :  
> -panic attack  
> -crying   
> -hyperventilating  
> -child abandonment (tubbo in a box)  
> -drug addiction HINTED AT (aka the meds and pills are locked up and its mentioned that its for schlatts protection)

Fundy had merely been roaming the halls of the White House at night, finding himself unable to sleep, opting to just venture around the vast hallways. But when he’d walked past Tubbo’s door...

He’d heard muffled sobbing.

His breath hitched as worry knotted in his heart and he knocked on the door softly, warning the kid that he was gonna open the door. A minute passed, and Fundy finally cracked open the door.

Fundy’s jaw dropped.

Tubbo was on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, rocking back and forth, breathing coming out in shaky pants. His face was flushed red and soaked with tears, tears that caused his eyes to twitch and white tracks to travel through the pink of his cheeks. His hair was messy, although that wasn’t uncommon for the teen, what was uncommon, however, was what had caused the sudden messy hair.

On his head poking from beneath his hair was horns. Barely visible horns, but horns nonetheless. Small, sharp beginnings of horns had grown past his hair length, parting the curls around them, making the soft white colour stand out from the cinnamon coloured hair. 

His head jolted up, and he felt sick, eyes painfully wide with fear. He scrambled to his feet, stumbling over himself when he stood up. Grasping Fundy’s wrist, he pulled the other boy inside, shutting the door behind him, breathing ragged. 

-“You- Fuck, Fundy, you can’t tell anyone, Fundy, promise me, promise you won’t tell anyone,” Tubbo spoke quickly, words stumbled and faltering, hand clutching Fundy’s wrist unintentionally painfully tightly. He was much less intimidating with scattered white freckles forming on his cheeks, and even more with the tears still free falling down his face.

Fundy breathed out sharply, realising now wasn’t the best time to freak out over the horns, the teen seemed to be panicking enough for both of them. Twisting his hand around so he could grasp Tubbo’s wrist too, he began speaking, voice quiet and soothing, “Breathe, Tubbo, c’mon, take a deep breath. Breathe. I won’t tell anyone, I swear, I’ll keep quiet as long as you want me to, I promise. Now, please _breathe_ ,” Fundy attempted to reassure him, still worried about the harsh hyperventilating the teen was doing.

“Please don’t- Don’t-” Tubbo muttered thickly, choking out his words through tears, eyes wide, face flushed with panic. 

“Tubbo, look at me,” he allowed a moment for Tubbo to jerk his head up,”I promise you, I won’t tell anyone, not a single soul, I swear, you have my word,” Fundy vowed, holding his hand up for a few seconds before putting it on Tubbo’s shoulder, giving the teen enough time to register what he was doing. He carefully pulled the shaking teen towards him, “Can I hug you?”

Something inside the teen seemed to snap at the contact, and his face scrunched up, practically collapsing onto Fundy, balling his hands up on the back of his shirt, pressing his face into Fundy’s shoulder.

Fundy’s heart hurt, and he held Tubbo back, wrapping his arms around the teens shoulders and carefully lowering them to the ground, letting Tubbo sit and just sob into his shoulder, “It’s okay, Tubbo, it’s okay,” he reassured quietly, hugging the teen tightly. Once he noticed the violent sobs wracking Tubbo’s body easing, he pulled back, looking down at the boy. He scanned the room, finding a tissue box on the desk, grabbing it and handing them over to the teen.

Sniffling, Tubbo pulled out a few tissues, violently scrubbing the tears away, “I’m so-sorry,” he blubbered, shoulders still trembling.

“Tubbo, it’s okay,” he spoke calmly, keeping his voice quiet and soft, allowing the boy a moment to wipe his tears away before breaking the silence.

“But- but what if it’s not? Fundy, I- fuck, I haven’t told you this, but- but- but- I- and- and- I-” Tubbo cut himself off with another sob, curling on on himself. 

Fundy got an idea, rising to his feet, offering a hand, “C’mon, I’ll go make hot chocolate and we can talk in the kitchen,” he offered, receiving a grateful nod and a hand placing itself in his hand in return. 

The two ventured to the kitchen quietly, Fundy quickly stopping by his room to grab his hat and hand it to Tubbo, something to cover the horns with for now. Tubbo took a seat at the counter, slumping on the stool. Fundy quickly whipped up two hot chocolates, sliding Tubbo’s over to him as he took a seat across from the boy. “Are you okay to talk about it?” He asked softly.

“Mhm,” Tubbo confirmed, taking a sip of the boiling hot chocolate, looking down at the table. 

“Why were you so freaked out about the horns? I know it’s a bit late to grow them in, but surely you were expecting it?” 

Tubbo took a deep breath, “Only Philza, Tommy and Wilbur know, but I...don’t know my biological parents. Phil found me on the side of the road when I was 5. I don’t remember anything before that, I have this,” he reached beneath the collar of his shirt, pulling out a thin bronze chain, an old, rusted bee keyring hanging from it, “And that’s it. Phil said I had the keyring when he found me, a small amount of baby stuff and that was all that was there.”

“Shit, Tubbo, I’m sorry, that’s horrible, dude,” He tried to restrain his shock. That was the same keyring Schlatt had shown him from the pictures, and Tubbo was found in a box, the same place Schlatt had left his son. And Tubbo was the right age. 

He shrugged, “I’m not too bothered by it anymore. I just didn’t know _whoever_ my bio parents _were_ had horns, so when I moved my hair and found _those_...I don’t know, I just got surprised, I guess,” He smiled weakly.

“Does it hurt?” Fundy questioned, head tilted in curiosity. He tiptoed around his wording, trying his hardest not to provoke the boy.

Tubbo was unbothered, shrugging again, “Yeah, I guess, the horns themselves don’t hurt, just the skin around them, that bit hurts a lot. It’s been stinging for the last few weeks, but it got really bad today so I went to check and found those,” he sipped on his hot chocolate again.

Fundy got to his feet, striding over to the tall cabinet at the end of the room. He opened the second drawer, removing what looked like a false bottom inside the drawer and then taking out a safe. He unlocked it using the key around his neck, pulling out a pack of painkillers, popping two out and handing them to Tubbo. “It’s for Schlatt,” he explained, seeing the look of confusion on the teens face at all the precautions.

“Ah, got it,” Tubbo nodded, understanding and swallowing the two pills with the help of the hot chocolate. Once he lowered the cup, he revealed a large blob of whipped cream sat on his nose.

Fundy returned to his seat, tucking the key back under the collar of his shirt, looking up at Tubbo only to see the whipped cream.

They stared at each other for a solid few seconds, barely restraining laughter.

The door creaked open, and they glanced over.

Quackity’s eyes fell on the boys sat at the counter, hot chocolate sat in front of them, Fundy’s hat resting on Tubbo’s head and the whipped cream covering Tubbo’s nose. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, “I’m not even gonna ask,” he turned around and left.

They broke into laughter.


	5. splitting apart code like moses parting the red sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then he saw the name of the kid.
> 
> His heart sank.
> 
> ‘First name : Tubbo Middle name : (X) Surname : Schlatt’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS :  
> -mention of child abandonment 
> 
> sheesh, heres the ending, finally done lmfao

“For fucks sake!” Tubbo groaned, slumping his head on the desk. He’d ran into yet another wall of protection, and he had to completely dismantle that one before they could continue. With a sigh, he leaned his chin on the desk, slouching uncomfortably as he began typing furiously on the keyboard.

Quackity glanced over with a chuckle, momentarily pausing the clicking noises of his typing, “You doin’ okay there, man?” He got a groan in response.

“Agreed,” Fundy joked, sliding his chair across the room to sit beside Tubbo, looking over at his screen. “Oh, I can do this one, easy. Shoo,” he kicked one of the legs of Tubbo’s chair, sending him spinning around and out of his way. Shifting so he was sat in front of the computer, he deleted all of the previous text, beginning to type more hesitantly, eventually building up to a rapid pace where his fingers were cramping painfully.

He knew what they were doing was useless, they’d just find out the same thing they already knew. Tubbo was very obviously Schlatt’s kid. Hell, even Quackity knew, and that man was oblivious as fuck. Fundy had been doing some extra work one night when the man had burst into his room, eyes wide, hushedly yelling, “ _You didn’t tell me the person we were looking for was Schlatt’s kid?_!”

Quackity could tell too, after Tubbo had adjusted the hat and one of the horns peaked out, he connected the dots instantly. Guilt seemed to swallow him alive as he continued typing, knowing they were working incessantly towards something they already knew. 

“Done,” Fundy pushed himself away from the computer, spinning around in his chair a few times before sliding back to his desk, or, the kitchen counter he’d set up his computer on. 

Tubbo returned to his monitors, seeing that Fundy had indeed wormed his way through the barriers. “Got the hospital records open,” he announced, clicking onto the search bar and inputting the name they had been told to look for.

Right as he was about to press enter, he felt himself spin across the room again as Quackity kicked his chair. “Hey!” He exclaimed, gripping the seat as to not flail off as he collided with the back wall of the kitchen. “I did most of the work, and you won’t even let me click go?!”

Quackity stayed silent, sticking his tongue out at the salty teenager before pressing enter. The first result was a birth, dated right before Christmas, just as Schlatt said. He bit his tongue and clicked on it, seeing a photo of the kid first. He was tiny, pink tinted chubby cheeks and squished green eyes, tufts of brown hair poking from his head. There were small bumps on his head around the area where the horns would later grow in, an area that would later be hidden by a mop of brown curls, the bumps left undiscovered. He wore a onseise that the hospital had supplied, a pale yellow one, the one the kid had worn in some of the pictures Schlatt showed him.

Then he saw the name of the kid.

His heart sank.

_**‘First name :** Tubbo **Middle name :** (X) **Surname :** Schlatt’. _

Fundy’s stare burned into him as he attempted to figure out what his expression was, whether or not they had been correct in assuming Tubbo as Schlatt’s son.

Quackity glanced over at him subtly, making brief eye contact and nodding. He immediately minimised the hospital page, standing and stretching, “Well, that was a dead end,” he lied, a sick feeling arising in his stomach.

“Really? All of that for a fucking dead end I didn’t even get to see?” Tubbo pouted, slouching down in his chair. 

Fundy looked back over to Quackity, and he could tell the other man looked faint, “Uh, Tubbo, I think that’s it for the night, bed time, go on, child,” he pointed towards the door.

He didn’t look happy about it in the slightest, but Tubbo couldn’t deny he was tired, so with a groan and exaggerated slouching, he walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. 

“Who do we tell first?” Quackity asked in a hushed voice, hands trembling slightly. 

“Schlatt, obviously, he was the one who asked to find him, he has to know before Tubbo does,” Fundy answered, voice just as quiet. 

“But Tubbo’s gonna want to know too,” Quackity reasoned, beginning to unplug the mountain of cables left from their computers, collecting up the mouses and dumping them onto the table. 

Fundy sighed, shutting down his computer, “Yeah, I guess, but surely Schlatt should be the one to tell him. I mean, he is his kid after all.”

“How are we even going to tell Schlatt? Show him the fucking hospital document saying ‘Hey, this is the son you abandoned 10 years ago, surprise! He lives with you already but oh no he’s been adopted? And there’s a 50% chance he’s a mole and not even on this side?’” 

Fundy paused, “That...might be a good idea,” he admitted, continuing after seeing Quackity’s befuddled look, “No, not the happy-adoption-mole part, the printing part. What if we gave him the paper and said ‘We haven’t seen what’s on it yet’ but here’s your son?’” 

“Then we’d be lying to him even more.”  
“Okay, without the lying bit then!” Fundy huffed, “Just...print it out, and we can give it to him tomorrow, warn him that he might not like what’s on it.”

Quackity seemed to consider it for a moment before returning to Tubbo’s computer and clicking the print icon, the familiar whirring of the printer starting up moments later. “That’s...probably going to have to be what we do. There’s not much else we could say to soften the blow, y’know?” He sighed, sitting on the cabinet by the printer, hand outstretched, ready to snatch the paper, “We should probably start by telling him that his son is alive, first off.”

Fundy laughed softly, “Yeah, that might be the best thing to begin with.”

“Then we tell him that he has a chance to talk to his son again, and we give him the paper. Deal?” Quackity asked, seeing the man quirk an eyebrow in response.

“This feels like I’m signing my soul away. I’m not making a deal with you, but yeah, we should do that.”

Quackity huffed, snatching the paper from the printer tray, “Why are you so dramatic?” 

“That’s just me.”

The next morning, when the sun pierced through the clouds, illuminating the cerulean blue sky. Bright sunrays were cast across the lime green grass, beez buzzing around the flowers dotted around the White House. The air was a comforting temperature, just between warm and cold, just hot enough that when you stepped outside, you could feel the sun on your skin, but just cold enough that it wasn't uncomfortable. It was...nice.

They gave the paper to Schlatt.

He cried.

The news was broken, not just to father, but to son too.

Tubbo cried.

Adoption papers were signed.

They were finally happy.


End file.
